A Scandal At Breakfast
by Scarper Gallywest
Summary: When Irene Adler's obituary suddenly appears in the newspaper, Watson begins to ask a few rather personal questions about the past...and holmes, frighteningly, to answer them...No slash or HolmesxIrene - Nothing indelicate - All in good spirits!
1. Dredging Up the Past

_I am not in the Holmes + Irene Adler camp - _

_One is a thinker, the other a vamp._

_However, the hash and re-hash of that riff_

_Has led in my mind to an interesting…what if?..._

_Enjoy. Take with a grain of salt and two aspirin. _

I walked into the dining room late one autumn morning to find Holmes dexterously reading the newpaper with one hand and buttering his toast with the other. As soon as he saw me he folded the paper, tossed it into the center of the table and began to stare fixedly at the landscape painting on the opposite wall.

"Morning, Watson. So kind of you to join us for breakfast."

I sighed and rubbed a kink out of my neck. "Yes, I know, I'm rather tardier than usual. The ballet ended late last night." I poured myself a restorative cup of hot coffee and topped off Holmes's cup. "You ought to have gone, you know."

"There are only a few things which I detest more avidly than the ballet, and most of them are either illegal or generally unmentionable in polite society. But I'm glad you had your fun."

My bohemian flatmate missed my raised eyebrow entirely as I glared balefully at him over the top of my coffee cup. With furtive curiosity I lifted the newspaper from where it lay atop the plate of toast and opened to the page Holmes had been reading. I was surprised to find a light pencil-mark next to the following item in the list of obituaries:

_ADLER, IRENE. D. late yesterday in the Saint Esprit Hospital in Marseilles, France, following a riding accident. Mrs Adler will be greatly missed for her skill and talent as a classical vocalist of no ordinary merit, and for her concerts both at home and abroad. _

_ She is survived by her former husband, Mr Godfrey Norton, Esq. _

_ Services will be private._

I noticed that my friend had been stirring sugar into his coffee for a full minute and a half while still gazing absently at nothing.

"Holmes?"

He started, his spoon clinking loudly against the rim of the cup. He withdrew it hastily.

"What is it, Watson?"

"Did you see this article regarding the passing of one of your former…acquaintances?"

"Miss Irene Adler, yes." He saw the unquenchable smirk playing beneath my moustache and looked at me mockingly.

"Don't be coy, Watson. You know as well as I do that there was nothing about the woman to attract her to me, or me to her. She was an adversary, an opponent, and in her passing I merely regret the loss of a worthy foe."

I threw up my hands in mock surrender. "I am no matchmaker, Holmes…"

"Whatever your ghastly account of the tale says to the contrary…"

I let this remark pass. But as it did an interesting thought nudged the forefront of my mind.


	2. Tea, Toast, and Climax

"Holmes?"

He pretended to be engrossed in the paper, which happened to be the _Observer._

"Yes, Watson? Tut, tut, my stock in shipping seems to have gone down again…"

"Holmes, this may come off as presumptuous, but…there have been some interesting women in others of your cases…haven't there?"

Had I been wearing spectacles, the look I received from across the table surely would have melted the glass. As it were I felt as though my mind had been ransacked and the inside of it scorched.

"Presumptuous hardly covers it," said Holmes in clipped tones. "Just how march are you feeling this morning, Doctor?"

I shrugged, feeling I had a toehold somewhere.

"You aren't obliged to answer—"

"Yes I am, blast it."

I admit I flinched slightly; meekly I set about spreading lemon curd on my toast. There was a long pause.

"Of course."

I spluttered on a mouthful of coffee. "I beg your pardon?"

He had uttered it casually, almost with disinterest. But the taut set of his jaw hinted what monstrous feelings swirled beneath that pair of words. Namely, I think he wanted to strangle me.

"Yes. Now eat your breakfast. By Jove, what is this tempestuous empire of ours doing in India these days…"

"Holmes?..."

"Watson!" He abruptly dropped paper and pretences and his eyes bored into me again. He gathered breath for a reprimand, but seemed to think better of it and settled back in his chair with a maliciously amused look, like a cat that has been tossed out the window and is seeking revenge. Holmes folded his arms and speculatively ran his tongue around his teeth.

I was in over my head now, and I knew it.

"There is nothing like a sordid scandal in my background, if that is what you are prodding for. I avoid hetaeras and harlots on principle, and have seen too much of the destruction and pain caused by an injudicious affair to even attempt anything. I have known a number of winning women, certainly, but was never married or engaged. And there are certain memories the details of which I would not and could not reveal even to you, my friend, in the name of a lingering love and respect for old friends."

I blinked at him, slightly appeased but feeling nonetheless that the bush had been fairly well beaten round. He sighed and gazed balefully at me. "And, I can see that won't satisfy you."

He looked at me speculatively and his face resumed that Machiavellian expression. I ran a finger around my collar while my fellow lodger steepled his fingers with relish for what was evidently to come.

"Well. Well, well, well. Perhaps if I say that again you will have water enough to swim in in this hole you are digging for yourself." He paused to artfully arch an eyebrow. "My dear Watson…If I show you a piece of concrete evidence will you promise to quell your curiosity, at least for a few hours?"

I shot him my own parry. "I have no doubt I will be so surprised I shall have no choice."

"Ah! A touch indeed. But I suppose I shall get this over with."

He got up with a final defiant flourish of the newspaper and strode over to his desk. Soon he was busy rifling through various drawers and compartments in its murkiest recesses under piles of papers and other paraphernalia; two black feathers, a singed theatre playbill, and a fork were all tossed aside before he withdrew a small object from the bottom of an inside drawer and triumphantly tossed it at me. It was a delicately embroidered band of ribbon bordered in red silk.

"What on earth is this?" I queried, fingering it over the tablecloth. I had fully expected a note, a photograph, or even a piece of jewelry.

Holmes turned sideways to replace the contents of his desk, but in profile I caught a sly smile insinuating itself at the corner of his mouth.

"That, Watson, is a garter."


End file.
